


not like a fever, like a second heart

by brampersandon



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gratuitous Old Man Handjobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 15:11:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14335188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/pseuds/brampersandon
Summary: Alessandro only looks at him, completely bewildered, still absorbing what the commentators are saying as the television blares on in the background, his heart stuttering through the process of a slow break. "Alessà," he says again, firmer this time, and that's good, that's something to ground himself with. The broad planes and sharp angles of Francesco's face, more familiar to him than his own. Alessandro draws a hand up and runs it over his cheek absently, watches Francesco watching him, like he's waiting for a signal on how he should handle this.





	not like a fever, like a second heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anemoi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/gifts).



> **shaz:** i wish you'd write a fic where francè gives alessà a sad handjob after ucl
> 
> brought to you by alessandro looking like [he spent 48 hours drinking or crying or both](https://www.instagram.com/p/BhdVrkKgIFO/?hl=en&taken-by=alessandrodelpiero) and neither of us being able to let anything go.
> 
> title comes from _october_ by louise glück.

"This is a fucking joke," Alessandro hears himself say, his own voice far from his ears. "Right? No—"

The ground pitches a bit beneath his feet as he stands, both hands clasped behind his head — it's officially _that point_ in the match where he can't sit and watch, he has to get up, like he's there with them hovering at the touchline. He isn't, of course, he's in Francesco's living room, still wearing yesterday's shirt. The two bottles of wine they've split so far sit empty on the table, and somehow Francesco's still laying behind him, rooted to the spot even as Szczęsny runs onto the field.

He swears low, tries to reach out to grab Alessandro's pant leg and drag him back down onto the couch, but it's not happening. Alessandro runs both hands backwards through his hair when Ronaldo stands over the ball, drags them down his face when it inevitably rockets into the back of the net. 

For a long moment, neither of them say anything. Alessandro keeps his hands over his face, eyes closed, breathes through it— until it's too much, until he has to let out a strangled noise of frustration and collapse back onto the couch, half on Francesco already.

Maybe they were a bit hasty. Last night's celebrations bled easily into this evening, every goal scored another glass of wine toasting to improbable comebacks and _two_ Italian teams moving onto the next round, when's the last time that happened? It makes Alessandro feel smaller and more foolish than he has in a good few years. That's the thing about hope in a situation like this; it blooms quickly, explodes into grand and glorious life, dies just as easily. If it isn't tethered down, it can overtake everything before it goes.

"Alessà," he murmurs, voice rumbling somewhere above him. Alessandro's a mess of sprawled limbs, his body running half a step behind his mind as he tries to sit up. Francesco doesn't let him, only pulls him further onto him, tries to help arrange him into something a little more comfortable. 

Alessandro only looks at him, completely bewildered, still absorbing what the commentators are saying as the television blares on in the background, his heart stuttering through the process of a slow break. "Alessà," he says again, firmer this time, and that's good, that's something to ground himself with. The broad planes and sharp angles of Francesco's face, more familiar to him than his own. Alessandro draws a hand up and runs it over his cheek absently, watches Francesco watching him, like he's waiting for a signal on how he should handle this.

It's expected, the way he pulls him down to crash their mouths together. They've been here enough times before. Everything rushes him the second Francesco starts biting at his lower lip, a flood of what he was waiting to feel, all the hurt and outrage and disappointment and disbelief and bitterness and— and. And there's Francesco beneath him, hands sliding down his sides and thigh pressing up between his own, mouth hot and insistent against his own. Just as Alessandro took in all his joy and pride last night, Francesco repays him in kind.

He only pulls away to duck his head and nip at the hard line of Francesco's jaw. "Mute the fucking TV," he hisses, because if he hears one more quip about Buffon dashing his own dreams—

It's a struggle, fumbling for the remote without rolling Alessandro right off of him, and they _really_ don't both fit on this couch, but he's not moving for the world. "God, you're heavy," Francesco grumbles as he twists around to reach for it. "What do they feed you in America?"

"Yeah, you're in great shape yourself," Alessandro mutters, but it's utterly toothless. He doesn't have it in him to snipe. He doesn't have it in him to do anything at all, just lays his full weight against him and sighs against his neck. The room finally goes quiet, and he presses a kiss there instead. "Francè," he says — barely a full thought. Definitely a plea.

He doesn't need to say any more. Francesco turns his face so it's buried in Alessandro's hair, unbuttons his pants and pushes them down as much as he can. He doesn't say it's okay. He doesn't say they tried their hardest. He doesn't say _almost, so close_. He doesn't say anything at all, just pulls Alessandro out and strokes him lazily, barely enough room between them to do it properly. "Move," he manages to get out, and Alessandro does his best to lift his hips, support himself a little. "There. Look, I've got you, yeah?"

That's as close to an acknowledgment out loud as either of them get, so— "Yeah," Alessandro breathes, and his voice hitches embarrassingly when he starts moving his wrist in earnest. It's an endlessly repeating canticle of nonsense, _Francè Francè Francè_ , whispered against him as Alessandro buries his face in the crook of his neck. He snaps his hips forward over and over again, messy and desperate, fucking into Francesco's fist and keeping his eyes closed tight as everything that led him to this moment tunnels down in his mind, loud and bright and just a little bit too rough, a little bit too much—

He loses himself in it, has no idea how long it takes before he comes over Francesco's stomach. Francesco lets him collapse against him, uncomfortable as it is, breathes hard against his ear and only mutters a couple jabs about the laundry they're both definitely too tipsy and tired to do. It rips a weak chuckle out of Alessandro and he lifts his head just enough to look him in the eye— a mistake, Francesco's face is unexpectedly warm and unbearably fond. Too much to look at. Like the fucking sun.

"You're going to the semifinals," Alessandro says definitively, like _this_ is what finally etches it into reality, "And I'm not."

Francesco's free hand lands on his cheek, gives it a couple pats. He's trying so hard to keep his grin in check, Alessandro can just _tell_ , when he says, "You weren't going anyway, Alessà."

"Go fuck yourself," Alessandro laughs, high and tinny as he curls a hand around Francesco's shoulder and shoves. "You know what I meant."

"Get a job with Juventus already so you can _really_ claim these losses. Lazy bastard." But his eyes are sparkling in the dim light of the living room as he says it, and he leans up to brush a deceptively gentle kiss over the tip of Alessandro's nose.

**Author's Note:**

> \- when _was_ the last time two italian teams made it to the semis? thanks for asking! 2002-03 when _three_ teams made it actually. It Will Never Happen Again At This Rate.
> 
> \- i have no excuse for any of this. thank you for reading my indulgent nonsense!! ♥ come yell at me on [tumblr](http://strikerbacks.tumblr.com).


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